


Good Care

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [58]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: Language, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 12:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14832374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: a few days afterSex and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.  Lancelot and Arthur, new.





	Good Care

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in April 2010. New edit June 2018.
> 
> This was inspired by time on the Santa Monica Pier, and this is the version that exists in Lance and Arthur's universe.

 

The wind tore at Lance’s hair; the pier was crowded with kids and tourists and the sun baked down from the LA sky.   
  
He rested his chin in his hand, the stubble tickling his palm as he stared at the water. Dressed in a fitted black tee shirt and linen trousers, he stood out like a rose in winter against the color of the wild summer clothing the milling crowds wore.  Laughter, shouting, screaming voices and happy sounds assailed him as he stood stock still at the edge of the railing that ran along the pier, his legs pressing against the wood. He could feel the people carousing and running and walking along behind him, his feet vibrating with the motion. The ferris wheel that took up most of the end of the pier flashed and sparkled in the sun, and the music that came from everywhere filled the air with joy.

Lance stared at the water and watched the fish and boats. He bit his lip and pinched the bridge of his nose – _do not think of her, don’t waste your time on her, don’t be angry. You have him now._

His sister could be so catty. And he wondered if she even knew how deep it cut. How hurt it made him when she spat out her little thoughts and didn’t stop to think about how it made him feel, how it might make Arthur feel. Lance shrugged; he didn’t really think Arthur minded, as Arthur probably thought Guinevere was alone too much and was just jealous of their relationship - _we need to spend more time with her. I feel bad about leaving her alone so much._

Lance had needed her when they were children, had needed her to help him stand against Roland and form a united front. But in their drafty Mediterranean style home he’d been on his own, always, just as Arthur thought she was now.  _Pffff_. He shook his head; Guinevere had always had the love of their father, while Lancelot, being the son and the first born, had had to work at it for even a tiny bit of acceptance or a smidgeon of something that wasn’t grudging respect. He would have given anything for Roland to actually _love_ him, not just admire him for his tenacity and balls. Lance had plenty of that – he’d had to.

He spun the gold ring he wore on his left hand around in a circle, watching the sun catch its metal and spark light off into the water. He closed his hands in fists, the scars on the right one bunching enough to keep his fingers from folding totally.

A kid banged into him, sending Lance knocking into the edge of the railing and scraping his hands on the wood. Turning, he waved away the mother’s horrified apology, the child clearly upset and holding a rapidly melting ice cream. Smiling indifferently, he pushed away from the fence and ambled back down the pier, the crowd seeming to part for him even though he’d not asked or moved in a way to make them stay away from him.  He wished he had; this way, they seemed to want to not touch him, him in his dark clothing and wild hair and bruised looking eyes. What kind of tourist came to the Santa Monica Pier and didn’t wear shorts?

*

The Thunderbird’s engine roared and Lancelot drove smoothly down the streets toward the campus and their apartment situated just outside of it. He could see Beyschner Hall as he drove by entrance 12 and wondered if Gwen was still watching from her window, wondering if she could catch Arthur and he at kissing or some other innocuous thing that made her hate her brother more. He slid his sunglasses over his eyes and drove past quickly.

*

The phone rang as he was parking outside, Arthur’s Triumph taking up the driveway. Lance flipped the mobile open and did not react when his father spoke his name, the words tinny and far away through the handset.  He listened as Roland spoke and nodded in the appropriate places; not that he could be seen, but Roland never waited for Lance to answer anyway. After about seven minutes, Lance heard the front door open and continued to stare at the street as Arthur approached the car and leaned on the edge of the doorframe.

“Yes, sir. She’s fine. Yes, I’ve taken her to dinner. I’m sure her classes are fine. Yes, I’m doing well in mine – English. The 19th Century Novel – yes, I’m staying with Philosophy.” Pause. “I’m not sure, dad. Teach, I think. We’ve gone over this, remember?” Lance’s voice rose, the only time he showed any emotion. His father would _not_ get a rise out of him if he could help it. 

Arthur’s hand lay gently on his shoulder and without looking up Lance raised his free one and covered the strong fingers with his own tapered ones. He held Arthur’s hand until he said goodbye and closed the phone with a soft click. The wind was still strong and blew his hair into his face, the strands getting trapped in the ear pieces of the aviators he wore.  He pocketed the keys to the car and opened the door, Arthur letting go of his hand as Lancelot stepped out of the Thunderbird. Shoving his glasses to the top of his head, he leaned against the bulk of the car, the warmth of the engine radiating through his cold body. Goose pimples rose on his skin and he met Arthur’s gaze. The other man’s eyes were narrowed with concern, his white tee and loose shorts dirty with motor oil and sweat, and Lance twitched a smile as Arthur stood close to him, his body blocking the strong summer wind that had Lance chilled.

“It was getting too quiet here without you,” Arthur’s voice rumbled from his chest, his fingers touching Lancelot’s jaw. Lance’s smile broadened briefly. He loved Arthur’s voice. He loved Arthur’s face, his hands, his hair, the way his clothing hung on his frame, his smell, his stupid motorcycle. He _loved_ Arthur. And fuck Guinevere, but she couldn’t have him. Arthur was his, and he was Arthur’s, and that was the way it was going to be, no matter how many tantrums she threw and no matter how much spying she did on them and no matter how guilty she made Arthur feel by playing up her loneliness.  She wasn’t lonely. She was a bitch and always acted on impulse to get what she wanted. Lance snorted and stepped forward into Arthur’s waiting arms, a tiny sound escaping as Arthur’s shirt and through it his skin touched Lance's torso. Warmth from the car and the sun and Arthur’s body seeped into his bones and Lance shivered and remembered how it had felt to finally wake up in Arthur’s arms, after so many months – years, really – of wondering what it would be like.  There was nothing, no feeling in the world or anything that could compare to that moment.  He would keep that memory locked up inside himself for the rest of his life.  

“I thought I’d give you a break,” he murmured, smiling as Arthur’s lips touched his neck and found his pulse, the newness of _them_ a strange and yet ancient thing. He’d known this man for half his life and he knew this was the best thing he could ever have imagined. And then the phone in his pocket vibrated, and Lance sighed and unwound from the warmth of safety and dug the thing out.

Arthur stepped back from him and turned toward the house and the bike, but Lance leaned against the car again, not willing to bring his sister or his father inside their home.

Crossing his arms, Arthur waited at the bottom step, watching with no comment until, after three minutes of Lance gesticulating and griping into the phone - _Guinevere, I don’t have time for this_ \- he came back and took the phone from Lance’s hand. He closed it, and tossed it into the open Thunderbird. Lance’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t say anything; he merely leaned forward and grasped Arthur’s head between his hands, his fingers sinking into the soft curls as he pressed his mouth to Arthur’s.  Lance’s hands gripped at Arthur’s skull and he sucked the other man’s bottom lip into his mouth, relishing the groan that elicited. He pulled back and brushed his lips to Arthur’s again, closed mouthed, chaste, gentle.

“I don’t need a break from you,” Arthur breathed, his hands roving over Lancelot’s chest and settling on his lower back, the large palms spanning the space easily. “I need you to be here with me.”

The phone shrilled again and both men shot looks at it. “Let’s go have dinner,” Lance said, winding his arms around Arthur’s neck, rubbing his linen clad legs against Arthur’s. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in years.”

Another kiss, another ring of the phone.

“You want to ride on the bike?” Arthur whispered onto Lancelot’s mouth. Lance tensed, but he knew Arthur’s new seat was more comfortable than the old, and the other man was very careful, and they’d driven it to the Pacific a few days ago.  
  
_ring ring ring ring_

“Yeah.  I do, yeah.”

Arthur’s grin was huge and toothy, and Lance let a laugh burble up from his gut that burst out and filled his ears with _happy_. Grabbing Lance’s hand, Arthur pulled him away from the Thunderbird and up the stairs to their apartment. “I’ve got to change,” he said, gesturing at his clothing. 

“No, Arthur. Let’s just go to Ruby’s. No one will say a damn thing there. Besides, I didn’t enjoy the pier earlier – you take me.” Arthur squinted and cocked his head, but Lance smiled and it was infectious. Arthur turned back to the door and locked it, and Lance was already at the bike, lifting the helmet from its place on the back of the seat. He handed it to Arthur; a small frown but Lance sat down and rested his hands on his thighs. “You’re the driver, you need it. I’ll be fine with you.”

“I’ll get another one tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Lance answered. Whatever the other man wanted. The bike dipped as Arthur sat and Lance’s hands went around his waist as the thing roared to life smoothly – Arthur took good care of it. His hand brushed over Lance’s once and then they turned in the driveway and were off down the street even as Lance heard the musical jangle of his phone from the empty Thunderbird. 

It was windy and his clothing and hair flapped and he probably swallowed a bug or seven, but he pressed himself to Arthur’s back and watched the road flash by until the pier came into sight. The ferris wheel was still going and the tourists were still milling and screaming and spending money on stupid games but this time Lance held onto Arthur’s hand as they strolled down the wooden planks. This time the strangers didn’t seem to part like the ocean to get away from him. Arthur squeezed his fingers and Lance glanced at him as they took their seats at the restaurant, the waitress cute and flirting with both of them as she brought their drinks.

The sun was setting as they finished their dessert and Lance stared calmly at the water, his foot on Arthur’s chair between the other man’s knees, Arthur’s hand stroking it slowly as they sat in silence. The bruises on Arthur’s neck were fading, turning a lovely shade of yellow that resembled the bright ball in the LA sky, and Lance touched his lips with his fingers, feeling Arthur’s mouth there. He caught Arthur watching him, and he touched the side of Arthur’s thigh with his sandal covered foot.

“Stay with me,” Arthur said. Lancelot nodded and the corners of his mouth quirked. “Always,” he answered simply. His trousers moved with the wind and his pockets were empty of everything save a bit of money and his keys, the weight of the phone not missed. He slid his hands inside them and his dark eyes contemplated the waves that were beginning to break on the shore, the folk that had been out and noisy all day slowly drifting away as the weather turned cool.

Lance had always been afraid of change – he was terrified of it. And yet –  
  
The sun set spectacularly and he was _new_ with Arthur, and he sat quietly in the comfortable chair in the restaurant on the pier and ate his ice cream and did not wonder.

~


End file.
